Telephone
by TheSilverHunt3r
Summary: Chuuya goes on a night out. She wasn't expecting Dostoyevsky to show up. PortMafiaBoss!Dazai x Fem!Chuuya, Fem!Chuuya x Dostoyevsky, oneshot.


Summary: Chuuya goes on a night out. She wasn't expecting Dostoyevsky to show up. PortMafiaBoss!Dazai x Fem!Chuuya, Fem!Chuuya x Dostoyevsky, oneshot.

"Can call all you want, but there's no one home  
And you're not gonna reach my telephone  
Out in the club, and I'm sipping that bubb  
And you're not gonna reach my telephone"  
-Telephone, Lady Gaga

The lights dimmed as the beat dropped. Everyone yelled and stamped and clapped. A thrill passed through the heart of the crowd.

Chuuya was a part of the throng. She blended in well. No one would look at her and say 'Obviously, that's a Port Mafia Executive'. She had traded her formal work clothes to something that was more of her younger self's style: a knee length, red skirt and black blouse.

The beat started up again. Everyone could feel it in their chests. A circle spontaneously formed among the mishmash of dancing strangers in the club.

A young man breakdanced for a few seconds. He received several back slaps after he made his way out. He winked flirtatiously at a group of girls that were next to his group of friends.

Next, a young couple started out as if they were waltzing before quickly shifting to a tango. They received a thunderous applause that almost drowned out the song playing through the large speakers.

The circle was clear for a second. Everyone looked around or kept their gaze on the empty space. Who was the next person bold enough to perform and risk public humiliation?

Chuuya put up her hair. She smiled as she stepped out of the crowd and into the circle. She kept a tight grip on her purse.

She had been overheating from the dancing and the warmth outing off of the bodies around her. Stepping into the empty space of cool air dried the sweat budding on her forehead.

Chuuya bobbed her head as a new song started. She danced across the circle, swaying along to the beat. She turned around, took three steps, and did two flips, one-handed as she was holding onto her purse. She landed on time to the beat, back to where she had entered the circle. The crowd cheered around her. She took a breath and started flipping backwards, keeping the revolutions tight enough to do four of them. She was glad she hadn't gone with stiletto heels tonight.

The crowd cheered loudly for her. She smirked at them and gave a quick bow.

Chuuya's hair had fallen out of the bun she had put it into. She took the hairband out and put it in her purse. She swiped her now messy bangs to the side of her face as she stepped back into the crowd. She ignored the dancing people around her as she maneuvered her way to the bar.

She picked up one of the paper menus. Chuuya used her hand to fan herself. The bartender looked over at her. "A bottle of number. . .twenty six, please." She put enough cash to pay for it on the table. Credit cards left a pretty blatant paper trail and she wasn't wanting to be found right now. She definitely didn't want to deal with. . . him.

Her phone rang. Mackerel, the I.D. said. It was him.

Chuuya didn't hesitate to decline the call. Her 'Boss' could find someone else to fix whatever problem it was. To that a*s, she was unavailable. She might as well be on the moon. She wasn't stopping her night for him.

"Here's your drink, miss."

Chuuya put her phone back in her purse. She picked up the bottle of wine and a glass. "Thanks."

She looked around for an empty place to sit.

Her phone rang. She frowned.

Dazai, again, no doubt.

She didn't have a free hand to decline the call.

Chuuya sat down at a booth. She pulled her phone out. And she was right: one new voicemail from Mackerel said the notification. She didn't listen to it.

She uncorked the bottle and poured herself a cup. Her phone buzzed repeatedly. She checked her notifications. She had about twenty new texts. She scrolled through, not really paying attention, and left Dazai on read.

"May I sit here?" An accented voice asked-it sounded oddly crisp, with a low undertone.

It was a voice Chuuya was familiar with.

Chuuya fingered her choker; her normal plain choker had been replaced with one that had fake diamonds glued onto the black ribbon. "Depends on what you're planning."

"Not anything bad," Dostoyevsky replied. He gestured to the glass in his hand as evidence. "Merely enjoying the club."

Chuuya gave the man a skeptical look. Then she shrugged.

"I am shocked to see you. It's rare to find such treasures." 'It's rare for Dazai to let such a treasure as you out of his sight,' Dostoyevsky meant. Seeing the lack of hostility towards himself, he sat down.

Chuuya turned off the notifications on her phone with a scathing look directed at Dazai's newest text. She wasn't a f*cking dog, to be ignored and then come running when he asked for her. Her pride would not allow her to.

Plus, she didn't have to talk to him. She swirled the wine in her glass, sipping liberally at the drink and ignoring her phone. She was too pissed off at Dazai to really care about Dostoyevsky being there. Besides, the Russian didn't bother her and tease her like Dazai.

They ignored each other for a while, letting the pocket of silence in the busy night club remain.

Dostoyevsky had a glass of something in his hand.

What was it?

Chuuya couldn't help the slight curiosity that crept into her. Before she could rethink the question, she asked, "What are you drinking?"

"Vodka," Dostoyevsky answered, honest.

Chuuya sighed, some sort of despair at life welled up in her. She was so done with both Dazai and Dostoyevsky. She leaned her head back, hitting the leather seat. "Figures," she muttered.

Dostoyevsky tilted his head-the move made him look oddly catlike. "And what does that mean?"

"You're Russian," Chuuya pointed out. "I'm sorry, but you drinking vodka is pretty cliche."

Dostoyevsky chuckled. He was legitimately amused-Chuuya had a point.

The silence returned for a few seconds.

Chuuya disliked the heavy silence. She would prefer a conversation. "Want to try some of my wine?" She offered.

Dostoyevsky raised his eyebrows. "Oh, not worried about what Dazai would say about this meeting?"

"Dazai? What about him?" Chuuya laughed. She smirked at the Russian. "What, you think we're an item?"

Dostoyevsky raised his eyebrows. "You're telling me you're not?" He couldn't help the quick glance at her lips.

"We're not," she confirmed. Chuuya leaned closer, a teasing smile on her face. "I thought you were supposed to be a genius?"

"I don't claim to be." 'He didn't claim it, he just was,' Dostoyevsky implied by the smug smirk growing on his features

Chuuya rolled her eyes. Similar to Dazai, she couldn't tell if she wanted to slap him or kiss him, just something to get that look off his face.

XXX

Dazai knew Chuuya didn't handle alcohol well. It was why he always made she was with someone trustworthy when drinking.

Chuuya was ignoring his calls.

And honestly, he couldn't even get mad at her about that. He deserved that response. He had worked for that growing distance and disregard even. But it certainly made keeping an eye on her harder.

He fiddled with the long red scarf around his shoulders. Everything else, minus his bandages, was black. He wasn't dressed in the right attire for a club, but he slipped across the floor like a ghost. The whole place except the dancing floor was dark.

Dazai only really experienced emotions when it came to her these days. But they were usually fondness or amusement. Seeing her passed out, back against Dostoyevsky's shoulder caused hate to well up. The icy feeling- similar in intensity to experiencing hypothermia in the Arctic tundra-was directed at the Russian and succintly conveyed through a brief glare. "Mind passing me my executive?"

"Not your partner. Not your friend. Not your lover." Dostoyevsky let a mocking smile show on his face, growing larger with each sentence. "I'd almost think you didn't care about her." His collar had been unbuttoned. He used his thumb to wipe at a red smudge near his lips.

Dazai let out a sardonic smile in reply. There was a flicker of something in his eyes. "Because we're the type of people who care?" They were masterminds. They were criminals. He was a mafia boss for crying out loud.

"Demons like us? Not usually," Dostoyevsky corrected. His left hand met Chuuya's and he weaved their fingers together. It was as much of a threat as flaunting what he could do, his power over the situation, even with Dazai there. Both Dostoyevsky's and Chuuya's hands were not gloved, leaving Chuuya vulnerable to Dostoyevsky's lethal ability.

There was a hint of anger in Dazai's voice, but it didn't show on his face. He kept smiling as he slid into the booth. "Hand her over, Fyodor-kun." He pulled a gun out of his black coat, keeping the weapon under the table so as to not attract attention.

"Jealous?" Dostoyevsky purred. His arm slid around her torso, pulling her even closer against him. His mocking smile widened as Dazai's face contorted at the move. Really, he had found such a fun pressure point. Beautiful too, he couldn't help but add on his own thoughts. There was no use in denying that the woman sleeping on him was drop dead gorgeous, dangerous and smart to boot.

"I'd like you to know that when I have the chance, I will dissolve your arms in acid, with them still connected to you," Dazai promised with a cheerful expression. His eyes kept dropping from his rival's face-trying to read the infuriating Russian-to Chuuya.

"How kind," Dostoyevsky drawled. He rested his chin on Chuuya's head. "It seems we are at a stalemate, yes?"

"How so?" Dazai asked, his smile placid. His gun trembled slightly from the rush of emotions he was suppressing.

Dostoyevsky pressed his nose to Chuuya's neck, breathing in the oddly pleasing mix of some type of lavender perfume and the metallic hint of blood. He could practically feel the jump in Dazai's heartbeat at the sight. "You could kill me, but I'm essentially holding Chuuya hostage. And please, don't waste my time lying, it's obvious you care."

"So what, I put away my gun and you'll hand her over?" Dazai's gun was pointed at Dostoyevsky's stomach, purposely calculated to not nick the aorta-it would be a slow, messy death.

Dostoyevsky pressed a kiss to Chuuya's neck. "That still wouldn't work. What assurance do I have that you won't just shoot me in the back?" He shrugged.

Dazai slid closer. "Simple, the need to spend time thinking up more inventive torture methods." It was a half-joke. Both of them knew Dostoyevsky had failsafes in place for when his death occured-the consequences to Dazai would be. . . devastating.

Dostoyevsky sighed in annoyance. "Let's put aside this farce, I guess." Of course, Dazai had his own failsafes, which was why Dostoyevsky couldn't really kill his rival either, at least now. "It was fun while it lasted," he said with a trace of regret and a meaningful look at the woman in his arms.

Dazai shifted his aim downwards, lower than Dostoyevsky's stomach. It was a rather blatant warning.

Dostoyevsky laughed even as his violet eyes darkened. He pressed a kiss to Chuuya's hand and let go of her. He slid around the opposite side of the booth Dazai was on. He stood up and slipped his gloves on his hands. Seemingly unhurried, he poured himself another glass of wine.

Dazai put away his gun. He kept his focus on the Russian. It was too late in this round to be distracted. A mistake could end with everyone here in a body bag.

"Better start treating her well, Dazai-kun. Or else I'll have a clear shot at making her one of my pieces." Dostoyevsky gave one more glance over his shoulder as he left, drinking from the glass in his hand.

Dazai felt the urge to throw the bottle of wine at Dostoyevsky's head. Instead, he turned his atttention to the reason he had come. He put Chuuya's gloves-abandoned on the table-in a pocket.

"Chuuya?" Dazai put a hand on her shoulder.

She was still out cold. If she was awake, Dazai would be dodging a punch to the nose by now.

Dazai slung Chuuya's purse over his shoulder-it was short enough on him that it didn't even reach his hip.

He picked Chuuya up, bridal style. He had found it was the best way to carry her after several trials, most of them due to Chuuya using Corruption.

Chuuya murmured at the sudden warmth. Still asleep, she moved closer to him, pressing her face into his shirt.

Dazai's nose twitched at the infuriating-it was irritating because he knew exactly who smelled like that-scent of vodka and rosin on her. The reminder was unpleasant. He let out curse under his breath, directed towards a particular Russian.

A/N

Rosin is a type of resin. It's used to treat the hair of bows (violin bows; cello bows, etc.).

Dazai's a mess, as usual, but he still cares. He's also screwing things up pretty badly. This situation will hopefully be a wake up call to him.

Dostoyevsky is taking advantage of the situation to mess with Dazai, but also him and Chuuya became an oddly friendly pair here? And I kind of love the idea of them being oddly friend-like? I don't know what I'm doing.

Trying my hand at writing longer scenes. Any thoughts? *crickets chirp in the distance* . . . Sounds about right. Well, except for the like five people who read my bsd stories. Shout out to you guys. You all are awesome.

-Silver


End file.
